The Drowning Detective
by ADayInOurLife
Summary: Sherlock knew that this situation was not good. Not good at all. And he was a bit annoyed that this was how the case had ended up.


Water. So much water everywhere. Spinning and churning around. It turns Sherlock in a current that keeps swirling and whirling, dragging him to and fro, making his limbs flail and his head spin. Literally, and figuratively. Sherlock didn't think it was possible to be this dizzy in water.

Bubbles. Bubbles forming in Sherlock's vision, bubbles filled with precious oxygen that's spewing from a cupid bow mouth; but it shouldn't be in the water, it should be in Sherlock's lungs. Except it isn't. It's swimming in the salty water around Sherlock, escaping from him, his life source. Bubbles are reaching for the surface, in the wrong direction away from Sherlock.

Fire. It burns. Flames rip through his muscles, igniting his bones. Hurting him. Sherlock knows if he keeps fighting, soon all that will be left of him will be a pile of cindered bones. Searing pain in Sherlock's arms, his legs; the energy is hurting him more and more every second and it's taking away his oxygen. Every time he struggles, he's deprived of more precious air. And Sherlock knows this because he's intelligent; he's the world's only Consulting Detective. He invented the job. While knowing that the fight against the vicious water takes away his oxygen, he also knows that giving up the fight means an embrace in the welcoming arms of the murky seaweed bottom of the river, the welcoming arms of Death.

Sherlock has no idea what he's supposed to do in this situation; never in all his years had he thought to stop and wonder about what to do should he be caught drowning in a salty river. So therefore he's stuck, tightly wrapped in a Gordian Knot. Which option to choose: because both were equally undesirable. And for the first time in his memory, Sherlock is truly lost for the answer. But he doesn't have time to think about all of this now, as the waves continue to pull and twist and turn and drag.

He's tired, so very tired. Sherlock can't even recall now how he got to where he is. He thinks it was a chase. Chasing a criminal, but he can't remember anything else about it. His brain and body is just solely focussed on staying alive. They have no time for memory. But time wears on, he can't keep fighting, and the thrashing limbs start to lose strength. They kick and writhe less ferociously, and with one last spasm, they die. He lets glorious rest overcome him. Rest. Resting as the waves drag him down the river.

Stupid. He's so stupid. He knows what will happen now. He tries to start fighting again, tries to kick against the water once more to break the unforgiving surface. But he can't.

The moon is out, and he can see a bright white light above the rippling surface, reflecting off the river water. A perfect circle. A perfect moon. But is it the moon? Sherlock realises that there's cloud cover tonight. And this light is too bright for a moon. His groggy brain can't make the connection, and he watches the light of a not-moon darting over the water, as if looking for something. His last thought is to wonder whether moons can look for things. It's a strange thought. He doesn't think they can. Slowly, he's overcome by a strange feeling of happiness, calm.

Calm. Stillness. Blackness. Floating.

He feels himself pull back to something; from where and to where he has no idea. But he now can feel something on his chest, which is strange. A second later, and it's gone. And then it's back. It comes and goes, Sherlock's slow and numbed brain realises. That's almost funny; why does this weight on his chest come and go? Odd. At that moment, it hurts. It's very painful, Sherlock thinks, and he decides he wants it to go away. But he can't stop it. In fact, come to think of it, he can't do anything.

Why?

It's confusing. He doesn't like being confused. There's music playing somewhere, Sherlock thinks. Sherlock doesn't know what it is, but it's a soft, zephyrean violin melody that floats through him. But then it's gone, and Sherlock isn't sure whether he was imagining it or not. Maybe it was never there. That's also confusing.

Suddenly, as if the switches are turned on one by one, Sherlock can feel a cold night whipping around and grass under him. Suddenly he can hear snippets of shouting. People are saying things. People are shouting. Loud. It's very loud. Sherlock doesn't like that either. It was all much better when he was just floating blissfully in the peaceful nothingness.

"Sherlock! Oh God…Breathe dammit!" the voice that cuts through his mind is desperate, broken. It chills the air even more than it already is as it rings through a dark night. "Damn you Sherlock, do it! Breathe! _Please!_"

If the person above him shouting these things was crying, Sherlock wouldn't notice, because the tears mix with water droplets from the river that are still clinging to Sherlock's white face. His fingers are tingling now. Sherlock feels a strange growing awareness around him.

"Breathe!"

Suddenly, there's a breath of air in his lungs. Two breaths. More of the pain on his chest follows the two beautiful gulps of air that his lungs are screaming for. Sherlock just wants some more of that air. Air, not water. It was fresh, clean, light; and not salty, dirty and heavy.

Sherlock's mind suddenly thought of that voice of the person who had commanded him to breathe. Who _pleaded_ with him to breathe. Sherlock knows that voice, but he can't remember right now. Though he does know that that voice has pleaded with him many times before. Sherlock hadn't always listened, but something about now makes him want to obey.

He tries, he spasms. He tries, but it doesn't come, and he apologises to the crying man who's attempting to blow life into him. Sherlock's about to give up – that nothingness was so lovely to be in anyway – when he tries again. It works.

And suddenly, gorgeous dewy air is gushing into his lungs. His chest convulses, and he feels the coughs expelling every last bit of that hatful water. He hears a relieved laugh, sirens, and feels a hand on him. Lestrade. His oxygenated brain works properly now. But he can't find the strength to crack open his eyes to wake from the blackness. He doesn't have to though. So, concentrating on his breathing – in, out, in, out – he finally rests.

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**A/N: Hi! Thanks for reading! Of course, I do not own anything you recognise, and I'd always love to hear feedback on how you think the story's going so I can improve for next time :)**


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